


An Artist and his Pet

by Psychotic_Perfectionist



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 08:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18426654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psychotic_Perfectionist/pseuds/Psychotic_Perfectionist
Summary: After losing his eye, Stefano became obsessed with capturing the second before death on photo. Using his models, he may just capture it once more. Creating a pet from betral and love, only for himself.





	An Artist and his Pet

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in a long time, so please excuse all grammatical errors and such

A florescent light flickered, illuminating the white hospital room where a man by the name of Stefano Valentini lay. Though his chest rose and fell as he lay awake his mind was not present. The slow steady beeping of a heart monitor echoed through the bright, white space. 

Bloody bandages covered the right half of his face, his mutilated eye hidden from sight. His left eye which was open, gazed up at the blank panels on the ceiling. His crystal blue iris, glossed over with salty liquid, as a singular tear escaped and fell down his cheek. 

"Nothing will ever be the same..." He said with soft Italian accent, barely audible. He sighed, and closed his eye, giving it a rest from the intense light. 

After what seemed like hours, The door to the room opened and a nurse wearing a pressed white dress and a red sweater that could easily be mistaken as too small walked in, her matching white shoes tapping on the linoleum floor with each step. She held a clipboard in one arm, and looked at him with a bored expression. Flipping the papers on the clipboard "Mr. Valentini?" she asked absentmindedly. 

Stefano opened his eye again and glanced at the woman suspiciously. She was tall and middle aged. Her long, mousy brown hair was pulled back into a low ponytail with her bangs parted down the middle, barely touching the sides of her black glasses. She left him bored and uninspired. "Sì?" He answered looking away from her and out the window looking for something to distract him from the pain. 

"Your discharge papers just came in. You're free to go." She said in a flat tone. She paused and looked up at Stenafo for a moment before continuing. "The doctor recommends taking some painkillers to ease your...discomfort." her voice soft but boring. The nurse set the papers down on a small table at the end of the bed and left the room without another word. 

Stefano sighed and slowly started to sit up, the sheet that covered him began to fall towards his lap. He winced and froze as the pressure in his eye moving forward. He took a deep breath and sat up fully, pushing through the pain. Exhaling, he slowly got out of bed wincing and stopping when the pain became too much. Finally on his feet he stumbled a bit, his balance being thrown off by now only having one eye. As he steadied himself he noticed that the hospital had provided a cane for him to use while recovering, but instead of kindness he took it as an insult, a joke, pitty. He scoffed and took a step with his right foot, but misjudged it and stumbled again catching himself on the bed. He looked at the cane again and sighed. Hating the thought of being seen with it. 

Making his way out of the hospital, leaning on a cane for support, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder he began to slowly walk. His destination had yet to be determined. 

6 months from the Accident 

The sun was bright in Siena this time of year. A cool breeze washes over my face. I sit on a bench in the Orto De' Pecci, one of my most favorite gardens. It smells of lavender and rosemary, the scents wafting beautifully through the air. In my hand, I hold a small envelope. Inside are the last developed photos I had taken while being a war photographer. 

Captured in the photos were soldiers' last moments on the battlefield. On the back of the last photo, someone had written in red pen 'the photo that took your eye - 2005'. What was captured was the exact moment the person in front of me had gotten shredded by the explosion that had taken my right eye. The moment between life and death, suspended in a single frame. 

It is beautiful. My eye widens in amazement as I gaze at what I have captured in the glossy paper. Running my finger across the surface tracing the image, I become instantly obsessed with the beauty of flesh being ripped apart and blood soaking the ground below. I shiver slightly with pleasure. The feeling of red hot inspiration flowing through me. I want to make more of this. More death. More masterpieces. More red, hot pleasure. 

9 months from the Accident 

I pick up what little I own and move to Krimson City, California. It's a small urban city, home to about a few hundred people. The disability money I receive each month from the government is just enough for me to rent a small studio apartment and start my photography business back up again. 

I take a deep breath, looking around at my new accommodations. Surprisingly enough, the apartment has a small extra room which I quickly turn into a darkroom to develop my photos. After I changing into something more appropriate to be seen in, I pack up my camera case and head out to the streets of Krimson City, ready to paint the town red. 

There are quite a few tenants in the apartments in my building, mostly elderly, but there are a few young adults who I've managed to become acquainted with over the 2 short months that I've been here. I no longer require the cane to assist me, which I am quite thankful of, and I now wear a thin patch over my right eye. The front of my hair covering most of the patch, but the bottom of the it still shows, just above my cheekbone. 

Upon reaching the bottom floor I happen to notice a young woman with light brown hair pulled up into a bun and wearing a sky blue sundress, is struggling to open her door while holding a box full of assorted knick knacks and a small plant, possibly from off of an office desk. A flurry of swear words spilling from her mouth as her keys slip from her hand and clatters onto the tiled floor. 

Attempting to be a decent neighbor, I walk over and pick up the keys, handing them back to her. "Here, let me help." I gently take the box from her arm so she can freely open the door. 

The woman looks up at me in surprise. "Thanks," she says with a small sigh of relief, letting me take the box. As she fumbles with her keys once more, successfully getting them in the slot this time. As the door swings open and she hesitantly moves into her apartment before turning back to me. "Would you um, like to come in?" She smiles nervously. 

I chuckle softly. "No, grazie. I have things to do." I smile charmingly handing the box back to her and patting my camera bag that is slung across my body and resting on my hip. 

"Oh! You're a photographer! Well, if you're ever looking for a model, I'm looking for a job." She laughs weakly.Taking the box from my hands and setting the box down on a table next to the door, she pulls a business card out of her wallet. Holding it out for me to take she smiles up at me, attempting to be charming, she says "Here, my card," with a light flutter of her eyelashes. 

Unfazed by her actions, I take the card and study it for a brief moment. "Thank you, Ms. Lewis, I'll keep you in mind." I stick the thick paper in my pocket and turn to leave, bidding her goodbye with a light smirk dancing across my lips. 

Stepping outside I take a deep breath, breathing in the stale air making me miss Siena. By now, I have located and mapped out all of the coffee shops, parks, and more 'pleasant' areas of Krimson City. Recently, I've tried taking pictures of nature, statues, buildings, even clouds, but I no matter how hard I try, I still hear the little voice in the back of my mind, encouraging me to photograph death, gore, and bodies beautifully broken beyond recognition. I find myself smiling at the delicious thought of those bodies. 

I shake my head pushing the thought from my mind I’ve had enough of death, more than any man needs in his life. Trying to distract myself I slip my hand into my pocket where my fingers caress Ms. Lewis' card, I slowly slide it out of my pocket and study it once more. "Emily Lewis, photographic model and aspiring actress." I read aloud, savoring each word as it passes my lips. Under her titles it has her phone number and email, I smile sadistically as I picture what I might do to her. I can use her to connect life and death to exhibit the beautiful fear a person feels when they are faced with their own mortality.


End file.
